


In The Depths of Your Eyes

by simplebitch



Series: Inquisitor Nettie AU [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, carver hawke is smooth af, nettie is a thirsty boi, someone save him, writer uses cheesy cliches, written for an rp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 10:31:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13545498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplebitch/pseuds/simplebitch
Summary: How Inquisitor Nettie met Lieutenant Carver Hawke, and fell for him.Literally.





	In The Depths of Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Nettie belongs to CaptainDemetrios

“Well, Haven.” Carver grimaced as he looked around the small village. “This isn’t a place to raise an army.”

The comment brought Cullen’s attention out of the thick roll of reports in his hand, a droll look on his face. “I don’t suppose you happen to have a fortress just lying around, do you Lieutenant?”

It was a conversation that they’d had more than a few times, in varying levels of seriousness, since the clusterfuck that was the Conclave. Haven was a small village, abandoned and made popular to the faithful by the discovery of Andraste’s ashes. Any remoteness that might have benefitted them by their position in the mountains had been ruined long ago with the increased foot traffic creating a more established path. It was a small village, not ideally defensible, or well provisioned for military forces, but it was what they had to work with.

“Ha, yeah.” Carver snorted. “Sure, my brother gave me one just before cutting me out of his life.”

“And to think you’ve been holding out.” Cullen scolded. “Turn around, I need to borrow your back for a moment.”

The warrior did as he was bid, rolling his eyes when he felt Cullen press the parchment to his back, a quill mark following. Because of course they couldn’t do this in, say, the Chantry, or at the  _ very least _ under a tent—no. Cullen had to oversee the training, while handling correspondence because  _ of course _ he couldn’t just do one thing when there were twenty to do at once.

Bloody workaholic.

“I just. Did it have to be in the bloody mountains?” Carver complained, fighting a shiver. “It’s cold.”

That earned him a laugh, and Carver couldn’t help the responsive grin. “If you wore a shirt with actual  _ sleeves _ , Carver—“

“Perish the thought.” He quipped.

“—you might not feel so cold.”

“We can’t all kill a bear to wear around our shoulders, Cull.”  He turned, rubbing his arms. “What? What’s with the face?”

“You didn’t have to come with me Carver.” Cullen sighed, guilt creeping into his voice. “You gave up your pension, you could have been a Knight-Captain, in Ostwick.”

“All due respect, Commander, fuck off.” Carver crossed his arms, face pinching together in what anyone could recognize as an expression reserved for moments of extreme stubbornness. “This Inquisition business is more important than being a Knight-Captain. I’d rather be balls deep in snow here than in Ostwick—fucking  _ Ostwick _ , Cullen, I was never going to take that post.”

“As for the rest of it…” The lyrium, the withdrawal, the whole fucking mess of cutting themselves away from the Order. “It was going to happen anyway, I think. For me. And you’re my—“ He stumbled, a fissure of awkwardness that didn’t used to exist going through them. “You’re my Commander. I go where you go.”

“Carver…” Cullen sighed, the guilt still there and no. No he was not having that.

It would just make things more awkward, would make it worse, and there was still a dull, raw ache of hurt that Carver didn’t want to deal with between them. An ache that he wanted to bury down until it was smothered out.

“Besides.” He shrugged, casting a glance around at where the recruits were sparring. “Someone’s gotta whip these pups into shape.”

It seemed to work, Carver thought, when he saw Cullen relax out of the corner of his eye. “Of course. Well, don’t let me keep you from your work. I do recall beating up recruits was a favorite pastime of yours.”

* * *

 

Nettie found that he was starting to take to this whole “Herald of Andraste” business rather well, even if he wasn’t a Herald, and even if he wasn’t Andrastian. A point that it seemed like he had to argue on a daily basis, even if nobody wanted to believe him.

Things were easier, too, he had to admit, now that the others were here. He was more comfortable going out on field missions with Nero and Ethalan at his back, though he would  _ not  _ admit that if it hadn’t been for the other elf they’d likely still be lost in the Hinterlands.

_ Fuck _ the Hinterlands.

“I fail to understand,” Nero was saying—had been saying ever since they’d gotten back to Haven—at his side, “why we couldn’t have just sent Cullen a letter telling him to send someone to build those watchtowers. Why do we have to come all the way back here?”

“Because I told Dennett I’d take care of this personally, and I intend to take care of it personally.” Nettie continued patiently, tugging his cloak closer around himself. “I want those horses, Nero, and I want that horse master.”

“You just want an excuse to go ogle the soldiers.” Nero shook his head. “Need more material for your imagination.”

“Nero!” He stumbled at that, face going red—entirely from his illness, yep—as he whipped around to look at his friend. “That is  _ not _ why I’m doing this.”

“Right.” The qunari lifted his hands in surrender, looking entirely non-apologetic. “Because you haven’t been looking for an excuse to get back to Haven since you overheard that Cullen sometimes practices shirtless.”

“That’s not—I don’t— _ listen _ you cock. I need to get him to sign off on some operations. Though  _ why  _ we need him is beyond me since I could do his job.” The short elf huffed.

“Pretty sure it has something to do with the whole practicing shirtless thing.” Nero mused, dancing out of the way of the kick that was aimed for his shins. “Also it’s hard to coordinate an army when you’re running from twenty bears.”

Nettie sighed at that, absently scratching at his neck, still itchy from the health poultice that had been slapped on it from, unsurprisingly, a bear attack. “I thought Ferelden was supposed to be a dog country, not a bear country.”

“I thought we’d at least settle somewhere warmer.” Nero complained, rubbing his hands. “I’m going to freeze to death here.”

Haven was cold, and it really wasn’t doing Nettie any favors, but it wasn’t like they could just pack up and leave. Unfortunately. He would love to leave. As far as neutral ground went, he supposed it made sense to have the Temple of Sacred Ashes be the meeting place for the Conclave. Since it was being hosted by the Chantry, and neither the Templars nor the mages seemed inclined to desecrate a holy site.

Or so he’d assumed, though it didn’t quite play out like that given the fact that the Temple was exploded and he now had a  _ glowing magic fucking hand. _

And to think, Cutie always used to say he had the worst fucking luck.

Case in point, here he was now, the only person in the world who could close the Fade rifts, trying to get an alliance with either said mages or Templars to close the  _ giant _ hole in the sky. Because putting the chronically ill elf with a bad attitude in charge of saving the world was a great idea.

“Ah yes, the sound of metal hitting metal.” Nero said dryly. “Really gets the heart pumping and the sparks—“

“Nero,  _ what the fuck.” _ Nettie jerked to a stop so suddenly that he could feel his friend bump into him.

Not that he cared, an entire herd of druffalo could stampede right over him and he wouldn’t be able to tear his gaze away. There was a… a  _ demonstration _ going on; the recruits were gathered around one of the smaller sparring rings—if he cared to look, Nettie could also see Cassandra watching as well. In the center of the ring…

Well in the center of the ring was probably the most beautiful thing Nettie had ever seen.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting  _ tired _ Commander.” Cullen was in the ring, facing off against a massive warrior that Nettie had never seen before.

He was... well,  _ big _ seemed like a hilarious understatement. Nettie had thought that Cullen was big, but this guy  _ towered _ over the Commander. Height wise, he would probably come up to about Nero’s chin, which was damn impressive, and kaffas he was broad. Which made sense given he was swinging around a two hander like it was a broom handle, surprisingly nimble on his feet. The final nail in the proverbial coffin—or  _ real  _ coffin, possibly, Nettie’s heart was thumping in his chest—was the fact that the man was wearing a sleeveless shirt. Which meant that Nettie had a complete, unrestricted view of tan, freckled,  _ obscenely fucking bulging _ arms.

“I wouldn’t flatter yourself so, Lieutenant Hawke.” Cullen shot back, lunging forward with his shield, knocking the other man off balance.

“You alright, or are you gonna faint?” Nero asked lightly, voice quiet and close to his ear, jolting Nettie.

He could feel his face flush with color and he carefully,  _ reluctantly _ , dragged his eyes away. “ _ Kaffas,  _ Nero, what the fuck? This should be illegal. Can I make this illegal? My life is being threatened.”

“Nettie, if you make this illegal your life really will be threatened.” Nero tsked, a satisfied noise rumbling out of his chest. “ _ Damn _ .”

“Who is that?” And more importantly, could they monetize the fact that there were two very fit, very attractive warriors sparring in the ring?

“Lieutenant Hawke, I believe his name is.” Nero rolled his eyes. “You assume I know everyone in Haven.”

“You were here for all of three days before you were greeting everyone we passed by name, forgive me.” Nettie shoved him.

Not that it did anything.

“Val might know him.” The qunari offered with a shrug. “She spends more time among the soldiers than I do.”

It was something he would definitely have to look into, when they finished up here. 

Nettie watched the match continue for a little while longer, with absolutely no desire to interrupt. Unfortunately the soldiers finally took notice of his presence, as demonstrated by the way they all rippled into a sort of stiffness. 

“There goes the fun.” He muttered under his breath.

That was the unfortunate thing--or at the very least  _ odd _ \--about being the “Herald”. It made people weird; they saluted him when he went past, and they all  _ recognized _ him. Nettie was used to a life of anonymity. He hadn’t been a nobody back home, but he hadn’t been subjected to this sort of attention either. It made things rather difficult sometimes, such as when he was trying to subtly watch attractive men.

“Ah, Herald.” Cullen turned to face him, the practice shield dropping slightly as he sheathed his sword. “I didn’t realize you’d returned so soon. You could have sent a runner.” 

Nettie could feel Lieutenant Hawke watching him, the intensity of the human’s gaze prickling along his awareness like a physical touch. He refused to give into the urge to return the look, instead keeping his attention fully on Cullen. 

“Ah, you know, they say the walk is good for my constitution.” Nettie shrugged, forcing his voice to remain steady. “I need watchtowers built.” 

“You need watchtowers built?” He parroted, crossing the ring. “Where? The soldiers can have them up and operational in short order.

“There goes my afternoon.” The Lieutenant muttered. “Suppose I’ll let you get back to work.”

Cullen mumbled something unintelligible as he waved his hand, “You marked the locations at the war table? I’ll go take a look.”

“Thanks. We still have to make that trip to Orlais, I’d like to have some good news about the state of our stables when we get back.” Nettie nodded in satisfaction at that. “That’s all I needed, really.”

Short, simple, efficient interactions. There was something preferable to that, he thought, something refreshing from the others who liked to poke and pry. 

The pair turned to leave at that, when Nettie ended up making a fatal, accidental mistake. As they were turning, as though of its own accord, his gaze caught the Lieutenant’s. 

Once, a very long time ago, they’d been in a border skirmish along the edge of Arlathan Forest. It had been a few years after Nettie had escaped from Tevinter, and some slavers had gotten too close when the Clan had been passing through. During the fight one of the mages, a laetan most likely--the  _ altus _ didn’t take careers as slavers--had hit him with a lightning spell. The shock had gone through him with a sharp, sudden burn as all of his nerves fired to attention.

Nettie would almost prefer that again to the effect of Lieutenant Hawke’s stare. In all his years, in all the people he had met, he’d never seen eyes like Hawke’s. They were  _ brown _ but the word itself did them a disservice. He had seen brown eyes before, beautiful like Val’s, which were so dark they were almost black. Or lighter, a tawny, topaz color like Ethalan’s father Cyrus’ that shined like gold in the right light. 

But these eyes were a shade of rusty, reddish brown that reminded him of… mahogany, maybe? Dark and warm, and almost welcoming if not for the way the massive human watched him. Closely, critically, it made Nettie feel like a butterfly pinned and spread under such intense scrutiny. He’d been looked at like that before, up on the selling block, except—no. No, Hawke wasn’t looking at him like he was a thing, a thing to be assessed and valued, a price tag put upon his worth. 

It was the look of a warrior assessing an equal, determining how much of a threat Nettie presented and seeking out avenues for response. 

And that was  _ thrilling. _

“Alright you lot, enough spectating!” When the Lieutenant finally turned his head away, slowly and deliberately, Nettie could feel the absence almost like a touch. “Hopefully you were paying attention and  _ learned _ something.”

* * *

 

_ Carver Hawke _ , former Knight-Lieutenant of the Circle of Magi of Kirkwall, brother of the Champion of Kirkwall, and current Lieutenant and right hand man of the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces. Recipient of the silverite Sword of Mercy, in return for exceptional service and tenure to the Templar Order, and esteemed Knight-Hunter of the Gallows. 

According to Val he was no longer a Templar, and as such had given up the use of lyrium, following in Cullen’s footsteps--quite literally--from Kirkwall.

According to Cassandra, Knight-Templar Carver Hawke had been strongly considered, and offered a position in the Seekers of Truth, which he had invariably ended up declining. 

According to Leliana, he had spent most of his life working on a farm, and could easily lift a young druffalo by the age of fifteen.

Nettie found Leliana’s report to be the most important of the three, if he were completely honest.

He’d never actually spoken to Carver Hawke, but now that he recognized the man, Nettie found himself seeing a lot of the Lieutenant. It was  _ pure _ coincidence, really, that he had something to discuss with Cassandra or Cullen whenever the Lieutenant was running drills with the soldiers. Complete happenstance that Nettie wanted to help Nero collect elfroot whenever the human was doing laps around the edge of the lake. 

And Val was down with the soldiers enough that when his other excuses didn’t pan out, he could claim he was going to see her.

Not a  _ crush _ , definitely not a crush and Ethalan could shove his arrows right up his ass for suggesting it.

Unfortunately for him, Carver hadn’t been down with the soldiers today--not that Nettie cared, he wasn’t paying attention. It was just unfortunate that, of all the attractive men he could be watching in the training rings, Carver wasn’t one of them. Which was… disappointing, and after a little while of  pining watching the other soldiers, Nettie had gotten up and headed to the stables to saddle up Cutie. 

If he wasn’t going to be productive and actually do work to help the Inquisition, he might as well take his horse out for a ride. 

“You’ve gotten bigger, you know.” Nettie mused, reaching around to grab the girth strap. “Don’t tell anyone though, if I have to hear one more joke about your size someone’s getting shanked.”

As per usual Cutie didn’t answer, tail swishing back and forth as he tugged on the rope hitching him to the post. Typical horse behavior, Nettie thought, giving the horse a gentle shove as he came around to the other side. 

“Awful, you’re just awful.” He shook his head, reaching up to bridle the horse. 

He had to stand on his tiptoes as Cutie lifted his head up, just barely within reach--a game the horse seemed to greatly enjoy playing. 

“You’re awful you know.” Nettie told him, removing the lead rope as he finally got the bridle on. “Just awful. I don’t need this, I’ve had a rough day.”

“Have you now?” Nettie startled at the interruption, nearly jumping out of his skin--which was a dangerous thing for someone already precariously balanced. 

Because the universe seemed bound and determined not to give him a single fucking break, Nettie’s stumbling left his foot tangled up in the dropped rope. Sure he could climb mountains with shit lungs, or appear behind someone quickly enough to rip through the vulnerable points in their armor without them noticing, but a single braided rope? Obviously a foe much stronger than his sense of balance.

Nettie had braced himself to hit the ground, when instead he found himself caught against what felt like a tree. A  _ very warm  _ tree. Resisting the urge to burrow into the newfound source of warmth, he craned his head up to find Carver looking down at him, a disgustingly  handsome amused expression on his face.

“Well, this isn’t the first time I’ve had a fella fall for me.” The man drawled, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a smile that was… absolutely devastating. “But usually it takes more time.”

_ Oh, no,  he’s even more handsome up close. _ Nettie thought, trapped in that rich brown gaze.

He could feel his face flushing, heartbeat beating like the wings of a hummingbird. They were close, so close Nettie could feel the warm fan of Carver’s breath and while he didn’t know how long they stood like that, with him being supported by the warrior, it felt like the moment spanned eternity.

“Get off me!” He pushed himself up with a surge of adrenaline, huffing and shoving the man away. “What are you even doing here? This is harassment.”

“Oh.” Carver scoffed. “That’s funny coming from the guy who’s practically stalking me.” 

“I--wh-- _ I am not _ .” Nettie sputtered, aiming for indignant thought it came out more as a squeak.

He looked completely unconvinced, taking a step back to prop himself up against the doorway, one hip cocked. “Right, so it’s just happenstance that you always show up when I’m working with the troops?”

“There’s nothing wrong with observing the training of my soldiers.” He argued. “Which is exactly what I was doing. If we’re going to stabilize the Hinterlands, I need to make sure that we have a force that’s up to task.” 

“Is that what it is?” Carver didn’t sound convinced, a sly expression on his face. “You’re just checking my professional qualifications, is that it Herald?”

Nettie had to turn back to his horse to keep the human from seeing the flare of color in his face. “It was strictly professional, Lieutenant.” 

“And what did you think? Do I pass muster?” He continued, his tone just on the right edge of professional.

“You were… more than adequate.” He muttered.

“Well then,  _ Your Grace _ ,” His voice had dropped to a low, intimate purr, much closer than it had been moments before. “If you want a private display of my… professional skill, you know where to find me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, shem.” He huffed defensively, crossing his arms and glaring at the human. 

All he got in return was a cocky salute and a knowing, infuriating wink as the human left the stables.

The thing was-the thing was that Nettie could still feel the  _ heat  _ coming off of Carver, could still imagine the feeling of those thick arms around his body. And he knew that he was in deep,  _ deep  _ trouble.


End file.
